Blue Collar

The things we do to comfort feelings of anxiousness...


"When will this void be filled?"

... an attempt: Remember when you tried to make things
that used to matter, matter again? You asked yourself
"What now?", and answered your question by not exploring
the future, but rather doing what has been done before.
Does redemption only lie in the past?


The future is mysterious, it's difficult to
find comfort in what has yet to reveal itself. The present
is somber, the nights are moonless... there's no way of
figuring out how to get home. I walk backwards, hoping
it'll set a trend that time will follow.

I wanted to fly today.
I went into my closet and looked for my wings...
they weren't there.
They were supposed to be right under my imagination,
beside my innocence, and those weren't there either.
I asked my mom if she had seen 'em.
She said she cleaned out my closet, and threw em out..
when I grew up.


I couldn't feel free again.

I Left My Wallet in El Segundo

Seasonal Affective Disorder.

The winter blues, bring gray like hues
to add to the "Ain't No Sunshine" time confusion.
Ain't no break of dawn, 'cause dawn has been momentarily broken.
Mid-day gloom, I must now assume a position fetal-like in the
abyss of lonely comfort that is my room,
this will be my tomb if soon...
I am not found.
I need inspiration.
Someone tell the ghosts outside to turn off the night and go to bed.
They could sleep in my room, on the floor, beside the other things
that I wish didn't matter.

Make Yourself

To times where we're just trying to find something to believe in.

Do you remember those mornings we used to spend together?

My mind is nostalgic now, my heart has been....

The morning gloom, schools that lacked our presence, the empty space in my bed.

My friends keep telling that I have the most comfortable bed, they have no idea...

I hesitated with the devils temptation today, the balance has been broken.

Sometimes we didn't finish our food, and nonverbally solved our issues. 

Sleep.

Our backs to each other. I turn around, and turn back around... You turn around, and put your arms around me. I knew. I could feel it in how you held me.

You didn't have to say a word.

Just let your heart beat against my back...

Let me feel you live.

Sometimes I stare at the spot where S/he used to be, Sometimes I lay there to see what S/he used to see.

The mourning has begun. Where my heart goes? My heart has been stained

with where my hearts been.

My invisible scars begin to get itchy, and remind me why I never want to return to that world again.

Live! In Concert.

To days where you feel like you're just trying

to find something to believe in.

Colour The Small One

Come along it is the break of day
Surely now, you'll have some things to say
It's not the time for telling tales on me

Stillmatic

The conversations that left lasting impressions on others...

but never on you.

Johnny Boy

When the echo of your own thoughts becomes deafening,
and there's no one to come along to acknowledge
that they hear the echo too....

... Listen to Cypress Hill, word to your membrane.

Mean Streets

...And he likes to sing-along.

I tried...


....and thus again reminded.

Choking on the ashes of a memory.

In Bloom - Nirvana

Foot Souljer Soundtrack

I caught a showing of Battle at Shaker Heights on IFC the other night.
Oh how I love the production techniques of a good independent film:
minimal frame cuts (although I find Darren Aronofsky's short shot
montage technique to be quite genius), incomplex character leveled
camera angles, a personalized well written screenplay... No need for high budget theatrics!

Word to one of the greatest screenplays in an independent film ever...

Emergency Rations

On comes the soldier stripes, and combat sneakers. Ready for

war.

Travis Bickle

To inconsistent sleep patterns brought on by times where
we digress from our usual routines, where late night movies
are our sanctuary and when the lyrics in our favorite songs
seem a little more pronounced... Cheers to motha.


Late night features to help tune out the fear of unseen creatures.


Where those two walls and that ceiling meet. Where you'll be peeling me,
from when the dreams become abilities. The trilogy, of growth, I'm at the
second level. Where every word is special, and I'm lost inside the echo.

Pardon Me

I've been having an interesting mix of emotions lately. The way my
mind puts my emotions into perspective has been almost completely
metaphorical. Sometimes I'm overcome by a familar feeling I used to
feel in high school, walking through the halls ways with my headphones
on bumping Sage Francis and Incubus, and of course the essential: Nas'
Illmatic. After I let them speak, it always leads to liberation.

On a more general note. I came across a true jem of a find: A promotional
Gil-Scott Heron Spirits album. For those who may not be completely up
on game with Gil-Scott Heron, spirits was released in 1994, around the time
he had become a junkie. I can almost feel his search for truth within the
music, especially the title track. For now, the expression of his journey
will be my refuge.